High on the Hog

Motorcycle rides help Evernham escape NASCAR pressures

"You've never been on a motorcycle?" Ray Evernham asks.

"No."

Surprise crisscrosses his face. I reconsider honesty in the millisecond before he adjusts, as NASCAR crew chiefs (he was) and owners (he is) tend to do, then I get the concise version of Motorcycle 101:

"OK, this is the helmet..."

The bike is a Harley-Davidson Road King. Mostly black, purple-streaked and chrome-accented. It's a big boy, and Ray soon has the thing cranked, rolling and shooting out of Talladega Superspeedway's tunnel with a minimum of fuss and instruction.

He's headed anywhere, nowhere. Only a handful of races remain, and so do opportunities for weekend cobweb- and mind-clearings. One of his drivers, Bill Elliott, ranks eighth in the Winston Cup points heading into Charlotte. The other two, Jeremy Mayfield and Casey Atwood, have proven higher-maintenance, but even when the sun, moon and stars all line up during a NASCAR season, there's still a need to decompress.

At most tracks, the garage is a short stroll from the motor home lot, and sometimes living at the office gets old. So Ray does what many other owners, drivers, crew chiefs and team members do: He escapes -- on a motorcycle

"You have to go when you have the chance," he says. "Usually Saturday afternoon is the only time."

Ray's serious about his cycles, a veteran. His latest acquisition is a "chopper," a long-necked thing like Peter Fonda rode in Easy Rider, and he's even toyed with the idea of building a bike himself. Evernham doesn't mind admitting that when one's life revolves around speed, machines and the tweaking of both, two-wheeling is his ideal -- and only -- hobby.

Often alone, but not always. Young son Ray J. occasionally occupies a passenger seat -- "I don't like to take him out on the highway," his dad says -- as does wife Mary.

At some point after we flee reality, I master balance. Avoid burning my ankles on exhaust pipes. Everything feels 20 feet closer because you're not viewing it from inside a glass and metal bubble, or as Ray explains over one shoulder, "It's like being in a convertible, only better. You've still got the doors and windshield around you in a convertible, even though you don't have the roof, so it's not the same."

I tell him I've never ridden in a convertible, either. More surprise.

"You need to rent one at one of these races," he says. (This is your warning, Accounts Payable)

Green hills loom to the southeast, the Talladega National Forest. Ray's heard of a historic house somewhere, but we don't find it before he turns on a state highway.

"Look," he says as we pass fields and farms. "Cotton."

There are acres of it, white carpet. Smaller gardens are still going, too. I point out a peculiar-looking plot and ask if he knows what's in it. He says no. "Okra," I reply.

"Oprah?"

"No! Okra."

"Know what that is?" Ray points at the horizon. I peer around him.

"A big cloud."

He grins, devilishly. "Rain."

A few more miles and we feel the first splatters; fat drops at Anniston's city limits, then steadier showers near Interstate 20. After a hot track day, it's not a nuisance, but it does provide the excuse to stop for gas. A man who's refueling his bike at the next pump pauses to chat and eventually recognizes Ray.

Back on the road, rain-cooled air makes for more comfort. We note passing scenery. Re-shed city limits. Ray marvels at automotive fossils he spies in roadside junkyards and abandoned car lots on private property.

"You could find some good stuff in there," he says.

There's quiet time, too. Sometimes it's too noisy -- or distracting -- to talk. If you allow it, wind becomes silence, and engine roar coupled with the bike's smooth dip in corners and curves, and gear-induced surges, is soothing (Ray's a good chauffeur).

Most of all, it's fun.

And as far from rules changes, personnel headaches, goal-tending and workaholic-ism as you can get. Instead of the points race, you debate what's in the "scrambleburgers" advertised by a corner barbecue joint -- "I don't think you want to know," Ray says -- and listen to stories. The Dodge dealer who organized a desert ride with local Hells Angels following last year's race at Phoenix. The three-hour meander through New Hampshire's mountain foothills several weeks ago.

Reality returns with the re-approach to the track. Post-ARCA traffic enmeshes, and although the surrounding, teeming miles of campgrounds and fans inspire awe -- "This is what it's all about," Ray says (fans, not traffic) -- his patience expires after 10 minutes; so might his engine. I learn that bikes get hot if they idle too long in the heat.

One U-turn later, we encounter bumper-to-bumper vehicles in the track's parking lots. If I haven't appreciated bikes before, I do now; traffic is irrelevant when you can outwit it, and the finale is a cruise through Talladega's infield campgrounds -- my request.

If you've been, you know: Sunburned people hoisting bottles, bawling greetings. Tricked-out, painted-up school buses doubling as condominiums. We see a department-store mannequin wearing Mardi Gras beads; no other riders.

Rays grins at some of the wider-eyed.

"They're wondering, 'How'd they get a motorcycle in here?'" he says.

We find out at the last camping area; a security guard announces no bikes are allowed (news to us). Two more car-bound guards flag us down as we backtrack. A third guard uses his siren to reiterate the point, turns it off after recognizing Ray. He promises leniency if we ride straight to the motor home lot -- and follows us to make sure.

"See?" Ray says after the security guard leaves, his good humor intact. "You got a real ride -- you got rained on and stopped by the police."

Hog Heaven.

 

Related information

Stories

Denise N. Maloof's Insider Archive

Multimedia

Visit Video Plus for the latest audio and video